I Need a Hero
by Elessar1201
Summary: When Britain's vampires side with Voldemort, the Auror department calls in GM Weasley to take care of it. But she's not the only hero around, and sometimes, even heroes need to be saved. AU after DH.
1. Chapter 1

**I Need a Hero**

_Author's note: As always, all the characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to the brilliant JK Rowling and I don't profit from them in any tangible way. However, I should mention another author, as well. While this is in no way a cross-over fic, I acknowledge with gratitude the influence of Laurell K. Hamilton. _

**Transylvania**

I am on my way to the Transylvanian Transportation Office, because people are dying and I have to go home. My boss, Sylvia Trask, does not like it when people die. Well, I should say, she doesn't like it when_ live_ people die. It's all right when the dead ones do. Which makes sense, obviously, since that's our job.

She also doesn't like it when I call her Boss, so I do it sometimes just to annoy her. She used to speak "very sternly" to me when I did it, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it, so I kept doing it. I also occasionally call her Chief, Fearless Leader, and O Captain, My Captain. Once I called her Skippy, which would have cracked me up, but we were under pretty serious attack at the time. It caused her to look at me, just for a second, rather than keep her eyes on her duel, and she ended up with what she likes to call "a nice little cut" on her arm, but which I call "nearly getting her arm sliced off." It's a matter of perspective, I guess. That was the only time I ever saw her screw up. After that I stuck to Boss and Chief and the rest.

Sylvia isn't particularly bothered by pain or blood, certainly not her own, but she does not like it when people die. We're here, she says, to keep the live people live and the dead people dead. She once threatened me that if I died on her at any point during my training or in the discharge of my duties, she'd personally raise my arse from the dead and kick it to Kingdom Come. I believed her. She's a very powerful necromancer; she could do it. And she doesn't ever give idle threats. She's legendary for it.

Though there are things and people I miss at home, I'd prefer to stay with Sylvia. I feel like I still have so much to learn, and frankly, I'll miss her. She was my boss, but it's hard to describe the bond that formed between us during those years of my apprenticeship. She was my teacher, my mentor, my older sister. I wasn't sure about this job when they first tapped me for it, but once I began working with Sylvia, I knew she was everything I wanted to be. It's hard for me to remember sometimes that she's only four years older than I am. I'm the same age now as she was when she took me on as a student four years ago.

Sylvia thinks I'm ready. She says I know more now than she did when she began to teach me. She says that's because I had a better teacher than she did. Sylvia doesn't waste time with false modesty—could you tell? So, even though I would prefer to stay with her, I'm going back to England, ready or not. I'm anxious, but excited. The thought of working with Kingsley again keeps me going; besides Sylvia, he's the best Auror I've ever known, and I've always looked up to him.

I grip the spongy strap of my backpack nervously. I grip it with my left hand, of course, because I obviously need to be able to reach my weapons at all times, and I'm faster with my right hand. I'm pretty damn fast with my left hand, too, but why not have every advantage possible? I've always been a fast draw, good reflexes, good instincts. It comes from my Weasley blood. We're all fast that way, though I bet that none of my brothers is quite as good as I am now. Still, any one of them could have been a dueling champion if they'd been serious about it. Even stuffy, desk-bound Percy has good competitive instincts. He just channels them into his work at the Ministry.

And of course, my good reflexes owe a lot to my four years on the Quidditch team as both Seeker and Chaser. There's nothing like Quidditch to hone that assertive streak in a girl.

But if I am honest—and I always try to be—I have to admit that while Quidditch and good genes played their part, I owe my skills chiefly to Harry Potter. First there was the DA, my fourth year at Hogwarts. God, he was relentless that year. I think he had a very personal investment in that club—the better we did, the worse it was for Umbridge. After I found out what she did to him with that quill, you couldn't have kept me away from DA, and I practiced like my life, or maybe Harry's, depended on it. There was no DA the next year, because we actually had a real Defense teacher (and whatever else you think about Snape, he was a good Defense teacher), but Neville, Luna, and I practiced on our own. We had our own little DA, and we got pretty good, because I was head-over-heels in love with Harry, and I thought that I could protect him if I was good enough.

Right. Anyway, I couldn't let the bloke get the best of me, could I?

Where the hell is that transportation office? I heft my backpack up a bit and look up and down the dark, musty halls of the Transylvanian Ministry of Magic. I've been here before, but it was in the middle of the night and there was a bit of crisis at the time, so I wasn't exactly leaving a bread crumb trail. This stupid backpack is getting heavy, but while I've Flooed the rest of my stuff ahead to the Burrow, I'm not going anywhere without my backpack. And I refuse to switch arms. I'm strong, I can handle it.

Finally I find the office, way back in a corner of a dungeon. A rotting door stands under a carved wooden sign so old I swear it must be written in Middle Transylvanian. I actually read Middle Transylvanian (along with Old and Modern), so you can believe me when I tell you that. I push open the grimy door with my shoulder, one hand on my backpack, one hand resting on my wand. This Ministry of Magic is in an old, converted castle—hell, it might even have belonged to Vlad the freaking Impaler himself—and I learned the hard way not to go tromping through blind doorways in old castles. Remind me to show you the scars.

The door creaks loudly as I step away from it, then it slams shut with an echoing bang behind me. The torch on the wall flickers, and in its shadow I see someone sitting at the desk. I nearly start laughing, because I swear to Merlin it's a hunchback. You may find that I've developed a strange sense of humor in the past few years. Anyway, there's this short, bald hunchback at the desk, tapping his long fingernails on the papers in front of him, and gazing up at me through bulging bug eyes. You gotta love the Transylvanians; what they lack in modern conveniences, they sure make up for in atmosphere.

I step up to the desk and speak to the bloke in English. "I would like a Portkey to England, please." See how polite I can be?

Quasimodo gives me this wheezy laugh. "Ah, well, miss, you must understand, international travel requires a minimum waiting period…"

I stare at him, but he's pretty oblivious, because he keeps droning on.

"…and proper authorization from the destination country's appropriate office…"

Since I'm doing my best to be polite, I don't roll my eyes, but I'm thinking to hell with protocol, I should have just charmed the Portkey for my own damn self. The bureaucratic crap goes on, and I am sorely tempted to pull a knife on this ugly bloke. Not to hurt him, just to scare him a bit, give him a good story to tell his grandkids, assuming this poor bastard ever manages to get himself laid.

But as I mentioned, I am being polite today. So while he's shoving forms across the desk… "Now if you could just sign these in triplicate, we can process your application…"

I reach into my back pocket for my identification.

"Pardon me," I say, still being courteous. Instead of pulling out my knife, I pull out the most precious pink suede wallet you ever saw. I try to cover the bloodstains with my fingers—for some reason people have a hard time reconciling cuteness with blood. It's stupid, but it often works to my advantage. "I need a Portkey to England…_now_."

I flip open the wallet and show him my identification. Not the plain old Auror ID, or my license to Apparate, either one of which would have been sufficient. Oh, no. I show him the big guns, the International Confederation of Wizards ID.

He pulls it toward him and squints at it in the dim torchlight, but it's obvious when he realizes what he's just seen. His already pasty face goes even whiter as his eyes skim over my name and classification.

**GM Weasley**

**International Confederation of Wizards**

**Law Enforcement: Vampire Division**

**Licenses: A, DC, H, NH, PH, V**

**Security Classification: A**

And there's my cute little photo, all red hair and freckles, twinkling and smiling and looking for all the world like I've just popped over to babysit your kids or get help on my Charms homework.

Igor's eyes go all buggy again and he chokes and sputters and jumps out of his chair, knocking it over behind him. A cloud of dust rises from the floor and he chokes some more and rubs his eyes. He's trying to say, "Sorry, miss, so sorry." At least, I think that's what he's trying to say, but he stumbles through another door just behind his desk so I don't have a chance to ask him to repeat himself. I decide, because I am feeling gracious, that I will accept his apology.

I sit down in one of the two grimy chairs in this dank, dark dungeon office. I don't expect I'll have very long to wait; how often does this office get people with A-level classification? I can hear the hunchback's voice speaking very fast, very anxiously, behind the door. Someone else is back there and they are conversing in rapid Transylvanian, which, you might not know, is still a locally spoken dialect of Hungarian, even among Muggles. I hear Hunchy say the words "Weasley," and "Classification A," and I hear the other voice speak again. He doesn't sound happy.

I rest my head on the back of the chair and smirk a bit. I don't know if they're all a-flutter because of my name or because of my classification, but either way, it has its uses. Harry taught me long ago that even if your reputation is exaggerated, it's one more weapon in your armory. He told us stories of Dumbledore, and Harry himself, taking down Death Eaters without ever casting a spell because the Death Eaters were so scared of the _idea_ of them.

In Transylvania,_ I_ have that kind of reputation. I don't know if this particular bloke has ever heard of me, but it's very possible. In England, I'm just one more Weasley kid--not a bad thing to be--but that isn't the case in Transylvania, Romania, Hungary, Albania, many parts of Central America, the Islands, and the States. And a few other places…I won't go into the list right now. I owe part of that to Sylvia, whose name carries as much cachet in certain circles as Harry's does in others. But I don't owe it entirely to her. She trained me well, but I've earned my own reputation.

Someone peeks out of the inner office and I give a merry wave. I sigh with satisfaction as the door quickly swings shut. I really love being class A. I'm twenty-three years old and have the same international security clearance as Scrimgeour and every other Minister of Magic worldwide. It has several perks, but the one that concerns me right now is the one that says that if you're class A, you go where you want, when you want, how you want, top priority, no questions asked. Even Percy and Dad only have a class C. Ron, Hermione, and Bill are C in peacetime and B in war, like now. Harry, even though he's an Auror like Ron and Hermione, carries a class A clearance like me. And that's just because he's Harry. Who's going to tell the Chosen One he can't go to Timbuktu if he wants to?

But I can only sit here and contemplate the joys of classification for so long. I'm having a hard time remembering why I even agreed to come here and take a stupid Portkey when I could have just Apparated home. Oh, yeah—something to do with cultivating a friendly relationship with the Transylvanian Ministry. I can see why that's important, but the longer I wait, the more I'm starting to lose those friendly feelings. I'm just about to give up on the creepy hunchback when the inner door opens again.

A very tall, very thin, and very pale man opens the door. I stand. Well, that's two questions answered—why this office looks like it's never seen a ray of sunlight, and why the boss didn't want to help me. Both are because the office supervisor is a vampire. Vampires tend not to like me much. It hurts my feelings; they don't even get to know me. Right. My hand moves ever so subtly from my wand to my sleeve, under which a knife is sheathed.

There's silence between us, but I don't offer him any aggression. I slump my shoulders, cast my eyes to the floor, and cross my arms in such a way that I look like I'm protecting myself, but I can still get a weapon if I need one.

The vampire speaks, finally. "May I see your identification, Miss Weasley?"

I nod and pull back my robes a bit to reach into my back pocket once more. The movement exposes my shoulder holster and the gun, and his silvery eyes flick to them but his face shows no expression. I'm guessing he has no idea what they are. I'm not surprised. If he was a wizard before he died, he wouldn't have any idea what they were, would he?

He stares at my ID without blinking. He's so still; I'm always amazed at how still they can be. It's like if they're not moving, they're dead. Of course, that's true. They're dead even when they are moving. He hands the wallet back to me carefully, apparently as anxious as I not to show any aggression—now that he knows I'm for real. Sylvia would be proud; I encountered a vampire and neither of us ended up getting killed.

"I'll bring your Portkey out and charm it for you, Miss Weasley," he tells me, giving me a stately bow as he disappears behind the door again. Smart man—creature—whatever. The line always seems a bit blurry. He has it all over the hunchback in the brains department; he even knew that I would want to watch him charm the Portkey so I could be sure where I was going. Constant vigilance, as they say.

I wait another few minutes, but this time I do not sit down. Finally the vampire comes out with a book and charms it for me. I grasp my backpack, pull my wand (you don't want to land unarmed, you're very vulnerable to attack right then), and touch the book. One familiar tug later, I am headed home.

I don't go right home, of course. I have to go to the Ministry of Magic and meet with Kingsley this afternoon. But as I spin through space, I feel a longing for the Burrow, for Mum and Dad. I haven't seen them since Christmas, and now, thinking about it, I miss them.

But business comes first, especially business where time is important. I arrive at the Atrium; between the spinning and the weight of my backpack, I stumble a little, but stay on my feet, wand out. I look around. There is a new guard at the security desk, and she has seen me arrive. I wonder whether I should bother going through the visitors' gate, but that security witch is watching me, and I don't want to cause any problems by trying to get past her.

I turn in my Portkey at the window and head toward the check-in gate. I can do this, though I have had enough of petty bureaucrats for one day. Still, if I can be polite to a Transylvanian Ministry vampire, surely it shouldn't be so hard to be polite to an English Ministry witch, right?

The guard is still watching me out of one eye, even as she checks visitors' wands and searches them casually. She's good; her movements are quick and efficient, she pays attention to the person in front of her and she never stops scanning the area. She's really much better than old Eric ever was.

I fall in line and soon it's my turn. "Wand," the guard says curtly. The name on her uniform reads, "Midgen." It sounds familiar to me, but I don't think I know her. I hand her my wand and shift slightly to keep a weapon within my reach. What can I say, it's an instinct. I'm probably being paranoid, but as Sylvia says, better paranoid and alive than sensible and dead. Midgen places my wand on the scale.

"What happened to Eric?" I ask. See, I can be friendly.

But Midgen only stares at me.

"You know, Eric Munsch?" I say. "The bloke who used to be here at this gate?"

She stares at me another beat then shakes her head. "Yeah, I know Eric," she says, and her voice is full of something—sadness? anger? "He was one of them that got killed in the last attack."

I haven't heard anything about any attacks on the Ministry, and I frown as Midgen takes my wand from the scale. She reaches for the slip of parchment emitting from the slot beneath. "Ash and unicorn hair, ten inches, been in use twelve years?"

"Right," I say. I hold out my hand for the wand, but she doesn't hand it back. Instead she nods at the backpack resting against my leg.

"I got to check that," she says.

I sigh. I was really hoping to avoid this. I should have told Kingsley to meet me down here. I scowl at that; even if you're prepared for anything, you still expect things to be easier on your home turf. Even the Transylvanians hadn't insisted on searching the bag. Of course, the Transylvanians are terrified of me, so that helps. And I have to remind myself, this isn't Transylvania any more.

"I'm sorry," I say, trying for just the right mixture of honest regret and firmness. "I would prefer you didn't."

"Sorry, miss," Midgen says firmly, "but that's the rules. All visitors got to be searched. Set that pack up here." She gestures to her countertop. She is still holding my wand.

For a minute I consider doing it. After all, very few magical people would know what they were looking at if they looked in there. But I have my vampire kit in there, along with my extra guns and bullet clips. I have the safety on all the guns, of course, but I can't take the chance that she'll accidentally shoot someone.

I try for polite and patient one more time, thinking that the hunchback was a lot easier to deal with than this no-nonsense witch. I admire how well she does her job, but I wish she didn't feel the need to do it on me.

"I'm not really a visitor," I say reasonably. I can be reasonable. I don't always go to weapons first. "I'm an Auror, look—" I reach back to get my wallet out of my pocket, but I guess Midgen thinks I'm going for a wand. That's fairly stupid, because she's actually holding my wand, but I guess everyone's instincts kick in right then. Midgen goes to pull her own wand, but before she can get it out of the holster, I'm holding a knife on her. Not to her throat, but to her wrist, blocking her hand from finishing its movement. If she tries, she'll be cut, and I don't even have to move.

I see the terror blossom in her eyes, but she doesn't look away. Points for Midgen. I have to admit it's a wicked looking blade. Hey, perception matters. We are utterly still, but we are both completely aware of our surroundings. I am very glad that there are so few people around; this is how panics get started, and I'm not sure Kingsley would appreciate my starting a riot my first day back.

"Calm down, Midgen," I say carefully. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. You have my wand, remember?"

Her eyes dart down to it, and her expression changes. She's kicking herself for overreacting. Good, maybe we can get out of this without anyone being hurt.

"You can hang on to my wand, but I don't want you going for yours, all right?"

Midgen nods.

"I'm going to reach into my back pocket and get my identification, all right?"

Midgen nods again, her jaw clenched. I shift a fraction, then I see Midgen's eyes dart over my shoulder. All fear in them drains away. My free hand moves fast, coming to rest on my Firestar, the smaller of my two guns, but it stills as I hear the deep voice from behind me. It isn't Kingsley's, that's for sure. It's the only voice that ever sent tingles up and down my spine, as it's doing now.

"It's all right, Eloise," he says quietly. "She's with me."

Midgen, the woman who had been about to curse me into next week, turns pink. "She wouldn't submit to a search, sir."

That dark voice laughs ruefully and says, "I don't doubt it. Ginny, you can take your knife away from our security guard's arm now."

I relax and step back. He doesn't know how close he came to being shot, the idiot. What kind of Auror sneaks up on a vampire slayer? I haven't spoken yet, but I take my left hand off the Firestar, then I slide my blade back into the wrist sheath. I take a moment to adjust my robes so that neither of my guns shows. At Midgen's nod I retrieve my wand from her desk and slide it into its black leather holster at my hip. It only takes a few seconds, but I can feel that green gaze behind me. It makes the back of my neck prickle. It makes the longing for home well up in me again.

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, I turn my back on Midgen, and come face to face with Harry Potter.

14


	2. Chapter 2

**II. The Ministry of Magic**

He gazes down at me, those green eyes staring straight into mine. I wonder if he's trying to read me. There's nothing for him to see; any feelings I had for him have long since faded away. But just in case, I do a little mind-block. It's a technique I sometimes have to use on vampires, but I figure it's close enough to Occlumency that it could keep a casual Legilimens out. Harry doesn't even blink, though, so I guess he's not trying to read me. I wonder if I'm relieved or disappointed.

He breaks eye contact first and looks over my head to where Midgen is standing behind me. "Thanks, Eloise," he says. Then he looks back at me, takes a deep breath, and runs a hand through that wonderfully messy black hair. "C'mon then," he says, and turns away.

I follow a half step behind him as he makes, not for the lifts, but for the stairs. This doesn't surprise me; Harry long ago gave up waiting for things to happen, even if it's just waiting for the lift. I appreciate that about him. It's one of the ways he's grown up since I first knew him.

We climb the stairs from the Atrium to the second floor, with Harry looking back at me every now and then to make sure I'm keeping up. I scowl at his back, annoyed by his concern. He's not talking, either, but I know him well enough to know that's preoccupation, not rudeness. Something's going on, and he's taking this time to gather his thoughts together. I'm taking the time to study his very fine arse as he climbs two steps above me. Another thing I appreciate about him.

"So, how come Midgen isn't an Auror?" I ask, tilting my head back a bit to look up at him. Harry looks over his shoulder at me as we climb the winding stairs---eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. The look on his face would seem to indicate that he's forgotten I'm there. He always was rough on a girl's ego.

"Who, Eloise?" he asks, looking puzzled. I roll my eyes; did we not just share a potentially violent encounter with a woman named Midgen? Who else would I be talking about?

"No," I say sarcastically. "Some other Midgen we've talked to recently." Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn.

I can sense his distracted smile, even from behind him. "Well, there are other Midgens working at the Ministry," he says. "But they're far less likely to become Aurors than Eloise. Why do you ask?"

I shrug, then realize that he can't see me. "I don't know," I say. "She fancies you." _Where the bloody hell had that come from?_

Harry glances back, one dark eyebrow raised in mild interest. "She does? How can you tell?"

Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. I'm trying to figure out why I brought it up, but that fine arse of his is distracting me. I finally opt for the cowardly but unassailable, "I can just tell, that's all."

Harry doesn't respond. Two more sets of steps and I say, "She'd be a good Auror, with some training. Kingsley should consider her."

Harry gives me an odd look over his shoulder, but doesn't say anything.

We finally reach the second floor and he pushes through a stairwell door. He holds the door for me, but not really like a gentleman would for a lady. Just as well, I don't particularly feel like a lady these days. He leads me down a corridor that I recognize as the back hallway of the Auror department, and we come out near the front, where the double glass doors are, but without having to see anyone. That's interesting.

He turns a corner to where an office sits just off the main foyer. The door reads _Kingsley Shacklebolt,_ but it opens for Harry and he strides right in without even knocking or anything. He doesn't pull his wand, but he does pull back his robes and rest his hand on it. I follow him into the office, pulling my own wand all the way out. I'm not as trusting as Harry; if we can get in, so can anyone else.

I wait quietly, if impatiently, as he closes the door and begins to perform sensory charms all over the office. He's very quick and thorough, and my respect for him, already considerable, slides up a notch. I have never worked with Harry as an Auror, though I have known him for more than twelve years as a friend. Or whatever. But right now, Auror to Auror, I can tell he's good. It's in his body language, the tension in his broad shoulders, the flexible hold he keeps on his wand, the almost palpable energy of total attention to his surroundings.

He's almost as good as I am, and that's not something I say very often.

Finally, Harry deems the office safe and secure from eavesdroppers or intruders, either visible or invisible. He gestures to a chair in front of Kingsley's desk and I sit in it. To my surprise, he walks around behind the desk and sits right in the big leather chair. Of course, I don't let the surprise show on my face, but when he props up his booted feet on the desk, I do raise one eyebrow.

I don't think he notices.

I'm about to ask him what in Merlin's name is going on, when he takes off his glasses and squeezes his eyes shut. He brings up his right hand to press his forefinger and thumb into his eyes and he gives a small sigh. I clamp my mouth shut before I can say something stupid. The sigh, the vulnerable gesture, and the remnant of thin scars across the back of his hand are all conspiring to make me feel like I want to take care of him, ease some of his burden. That's a very stupid feeling, because he hasn't even told me what his burden is yet.

See, I can be quiet when I have to.

"I'm really glad you came, Ginny," he says, not looking at me. "I need your help here."

He makes a show of cleaning his glasses on his robes, which I'm well aware is because he isn't sure of himself and doesn't want to look at me yet. My dad does the same thing. I am concerned by this uncharacteristic anxiety, this weariness. Harry's usual way of dealing with fear or pain is to come out swinging until either he or the other guy is knocked flat—usually the other guy. It's one of the things I appreciate about him. Sometimes, instead of fighting, he broods, which I used to find terribly attractive—there's nothing more romantic than a dark, brooding hero, especially to a love-struck teenage girl.

"What's going on, Harry?" I ask in my best firm-but-gentle voice. I didn't learn that one from Sylvia; it came from my mum. "Why are you in Kingsley's office?"

His jaw clenches and replaces his glasses. He looks straight at me then, for which I give him points. "How much did Kingsley tell you when he asked you to come back?"

I lean back in my chair, brushing my hand over the top of my backpack, just to reassure myself it's there. My wand's still in my left hand, and my right hand can get to a gun, a knife, or a bottle of holy water in less than a second. But here, in this place, most threats will be magical, so a wand is the most appropriate weapon.

"Not all that much," I admit. "He tracked Sylvia and me down in Wallachia last week and said that the vampires had joined Voldemort. He said he needed someone with vampire licensing to train the British Aurors and help them deal with it."

Harry drops his feet off the desk and they hit the ground with a thud. He leans toward me over the desktop, his emerald eyes glowing with intensity. I smirk; this is much more like the Harry I know and…well, the Harry I know.

"We really thought they'd remain neutral," he bites out. He's pissed off, probably at himself. "Voldemort's got nothing to offer them, and the publicity can only hurt them."

"You're wrong," I say levelly. Harry's a good Auror, but he's on my turf now. He doesn't really know about vampires.

His eyes flash. "About what?" he demands, and there's a desperate edge to the question.

"Everything," I say. "First, vampires are never neutral. They are always and only out for their own survival."

He scowls and tries to speak, but I raise a hand and interrupt him. He thinks he knows what I mean, but he's never experienced it. Not like I have.

"Second," I say, continuing to look him in the eyes, "Voldemort has one thing he can promise them that the Ministry won't."

"What's that?" Harry says impatiently.

"Legality," I say simply. "They want the laws outlawing their activities to be rescinded. They want to be legal citizens, with all the rights and protections thereof."

Harry gapes at me. I smirk again, not bothering to hide my satisfaction in knowing I have so totally surprised him.

Finally he snaps, "So, we're just supposed to say it's okay for them to murder people and drink their blood, are we?"

"Of course not," I snap right back. I don't know why he's yelling at me. I'm the one who kills the damn things. I'm not exactly their campaign manager. "I'm just telling you what they want. If that's what Voldemort has promised them, it would explain why they've taken a side."

Harry swears and leans back in the big leather chair. He is silent for a minute, gazing blankly out the window, but I don't think it will take long for the implications to hit him.

I'm right.

He turns his head and looks at me. "Ginny," he says, speaking very slowly and deliberately, "you're the vampire expert here, but it seems to me that if the vampires join Voldemort, and Voldemort wins, then having Voldemort in power will be the least of our problems."

I smile at him. He can be taught. "You got it, Potter," I say.

He takes a moment to digest that information. Then he nods slightly. "All right, what are your licenses?" he asks me out of nowhere.

The abrupt change of topic would have annoyed me into stonewalling with anyone else. What can I say? I like to be in control of a conversation. But because it's Harry, and because I know there's more he hasn't told me, I answer him.

"Auror, Dark Creature, Human, Non-Human, Part Human, and Vampire," I rattle off.

"Classification?" he asks.

"A."

He gives a low whistle, then suddenly grins. "You've come a long way from King's Cross, Weasley," he says, and I am stupidly pleased by how impressed he is. But he's right. I'm not the ten-year-old girl chasing after a train trying to catch a hero. I'm my own hero now.

"Don't you forget it, Potter," I say in mock challenge, and he laughs. The sound of his deep laughter warms me, and I hear my mocking voice, which always sounds like Sylvia, in my head. _Don't you forget it, either, Weasley._

We are silent together for a few moments and it's easy, comfortable. Or, it would be, if we weren't faced with vampires taking over Britain.

"You know," I tell him casually, "Transylvania, Wallachia, and Albania have all legalized vampires."

He raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Oh, yeah?" he says. "How do they control them?"

"They don't," I say, shaking my head. "That's my job." I emphasize _my._

He gives a snort at that, but I am deadly serious. I get a lot of work in those three countries. For a vampire hunter, that region is the big leagues, the Quidditch World Cup of supernatural evil. I've been playing in the big leagues for almost three years.

Harry blinks as he realizes that I'm serious, then blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair.

"That's their policy?" he says. "Let them go, then kill them when there are too many?"

I shrug. "Basically."

He gives me a dark look. "They used to be people, Ginny," he says quietly. "Someone knew and respected and cared about them. That all seems really wrong to me."

He's absolutely right, of course. That's the problem with the whole Dark Creature category. Some of those creatures are, or used to be, people. Take Professor Lupin, for example. With my licenses, I could kill him on sight, no questions asked, because of his "condition." I wouldn't, because he's a friend, a fellow soldier, and an honorable man. But he's also a Dark and Dangerous Creature.

Harry's right about the whole vampire-people thing, but he's also keeping something from me. It isn't that he's being secretive or deceptive—he's not like that. I know that about him, even if I haven't spent that much time with him in the past four years. I look at him there with his head resting in his hand and I know that he's trying to figure out a way to keep from placing a burden on anyone else's shoulders. In this case, mine. I can feel myself going all soft and gooey inside in the face of this oh-so-Harry attitude, this characteristic desire to protect everyone.

I quelch that feeling ruthlessly. I have no time and no room for soft and gooey feelings toward Harry Potter. Besides, Harry is a colleague, and we have business to take care of. And it's business he needs me for, even if he'd rather he didn't.

"Harry," I say in my best no-nonsense voice. "Where's Kingsley?"

I'm half hoping he doesn't answer. I am beginning to think I really don't want to know.

Harry's head snaps up and his eyes meet mine. He's surprised and impressed that I'm pressing him on this. As he should be—most people play right into Harry's Messiah complex, because most people want to be saved. I don't.

"There was an attack on the Ministry," he says starkly. His hand reaches back to rub the tense muscles of his neck. "It took us by surprise. Kingsley was killed. So was Eric the security guard."

I feel a pang of sharp grief for Kingsley, my friend and mentor. I gasp with the force of it, though I am not surprised to get the news. Dark rolling sadness follows that stab of pain, and I squeeze my eyes shut. _Not Kingsley…not this way._ It's followed by anger, which is much easier to deal with. Someone is going to pay for this.

I allow the grief to well in me and flood my nerve ends with the acid of raw regret. Not that I have a choice. _It didn't have to be this way. _I gather up my resolve, wrap my anger around me like a shield, and take a deep breath. I set the grief aside for the moment; that's for later. There's no time for it now.

"When?" I ask, and Harry's eyes widen at my tone. I know I sound hard, cold, but he wanted G.M. Weasley, Vampire Slayer, and that's what he's getting. There's work to be done.

"Two days ago," he says, meeting my eyes.

"How?"

"I—what?" Harry asks, his brow furrowing. "The vampires got him."

"Got him how?" I ask impatiently. "Did they murder him straight out or did they suck his blood until he died?"

Harry barely flinches at my brutal question. Points for him. He spreads his hands on the desk in front of him. "They drained him," he says. "At least three of them." His eyes are steady, but his voice is thick. "They were done with him and Eric by the time we got here."

"God, Harry," I say, trying for my usual snapping impatience. I've handled a lot worse than this. "Why didn't he call me earlier?" It's no good. My voice comes out as a wail of pain, and I know Harry notices.

He just shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "I told him six weeks ago he needed to get you back in the department."

I am not surprised by this news, since it has long been an open secret that Harry is a rather gifted Seer. He's also a Seer in denial, so we don't talk about it.

For just a moment, I allow myself to rest my forehead in my right hand, since my left hand is still clutching my wand. I normally wouldn't show any weakness in front of a client—my looks and age already give them doubts about whether or not I can handle this job. But Harry is a colleague, not a client. Besides, Harry has seen me at my worst. Well, almost. My worst has gotten worse in recent years.

Without looking, I holster the wand and remove the smaller of the two guns I'm wearing. I pull back the magazine and check the bullets. The clip is full. I slide the gun back into my waistband.

"Where's Kingsley now?" I ask, standing at my place. I reach down and hoist the backpack into the chair I have just left. I leave it sit there for a moment while I pull out the other gun, the Browning, from my shoulder holster. Slide the clip out, check, slide it back in.

Harry stands when I do. "What are the guns for, Ginny?" he asks, his voice full of suppressed tension and anger. Those emotions make his voice heavy and dark, and I ignore the shiver it sends through me. This is not the time.

I give a small smile. Harry would know what guns are, having been raised in a Muggle house. I turn back to the backpack and begin looking through it. My heart aches for the bloke, but I don't have time to indulge him. At least it's summer and there are a few hours of daylight left.

"Where's his body, Harry?" I ask again. "And Eric's?"

I pull out the Beretta, which has a hell of a lot of firepower, but is too big to fit my hand comfortably. It should be just right for Harry. I grab extra clips for the Beretta and the little Firestar and slide them into my jeans pocket. This should be a routine job, but you can't be too careful. I reach into my backpack again. I don't have another shoulder holster, but I do have a hip holster, which will have to do. (Note to self: get all Aurors fitted for shoulder holsters) I pull it out and walk around the desk and over to Harry. He turns to me and without a word I reach around behind him, sliding my arms inside his robes and ignoring how narrow his waist is and how broad his shoulders are. I quickly wrap the holster around him and buckle the leather strap. I should tie the string on the inside of his thigh, but I figure that's enough personal contact for one day.

Harry looks down at me, shocked and confused. I know he has never held a gun before, but I can't let him go into this unarmed. If magic worked against vampires, Kingsley would still be alive. I grab his shoulders and make him look at me.

"Where is Kingsley's body, Harry?" I ask again.

He finally answers me. "St. Mungo's morgue."

"Eric's too?

He nods.

"In the vault?" I ask, hoping to God to hear the right answer.

He hesitates, then shrugs those strong shoulders under my hands. "I think so. I'm not sure."

I drop my hands and sigh. They might not even be in the vault. They might be right out there in the open. Shit.

"Is there anyone else in the department who can fire a gun?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Fine," I say, wishing I had Sylvia here for backup. It's not like I've never walked into a trap before, but I've usually had backup I could count on. Of course, I don't know for sure that this is a trap, but with vampires it's always best to assume the worst. Chances are, you're still underestimating things.

I take a deep breath, thinking it through. _Sylvia says you can do this,_ I remind myself. God, I hope she's right.

"We'll need magical backup," I say. "Someone who's fast and not afraid to fight hard."

"You mean kill people." Harry's voice is flat, hard. He's looking at me like he's never seen me before. It hurts, and I raise my head to hide it.

"Yes, Harry," I say, lifting an eyebrow. "I mean kill people. Live ones. You'll just have to trust me on this. I don't have time to explain."

He looks at me for one more second. Then his jaw tightens and he nods. "Tonks is on maternity leave, but Ron and Hermione are on call. They can be here in a few seconds."

I glance up at him quickly. My chagrin at having to take these three particular people must show, because now he raises his eyebrow. "They're the strongest and fastest, along with Tonks," he says, a challenge in his voice. "That's what you want, right?"

"Right," I say.

I'm tempted to say more, to try to explain everything to him, but I don't. That particular temptation pisses me off; what the hell do I care if Harry thinks I enjoy killing people? To hide my treacherous thoughts, I push the Browning's magazine in, slide the gun into the holster, and give him my best cold-and-superior look.

"That's what I want."

15


End file.
